Perchance To Dream
by AlinaLotus
Summary: But in the end, she truly believed--or hoped--that Jareth would come for her still.


**My first Labyrinth fic...I've adored the film since I was born (I was born the year after it came out) and I've been secretly in love with Jareth since I can remember. I've decided it was time I get this stupid little story that's been in my head for years now out of me, because it's sort of...my story...if I pictured myself as Sarah, I think it would be how I felt, what I would do...yeah, I'm a nutter, but hopefully you can enjoy it anyway.**

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Sarah had learned only two things in her life: wishes came true, and self-sacrifice was, more often than not, the creation of loneliness. She'd rescued Toby from Jar--from the Labyrinth (she wouldn't,_ couldn't_, say his name without her heart, mangled as it was, shredding itself inside of her, threatening to end her even as the last syllable of the forbidden word was uttered) because she'd wished him there...and when she turned away from that Heavenly face, the promises and desires and perfection that had been offered, she had given away herself, lost everything she'd ever been and everything she was, because self-sacrifice was how it was done in these, those, types of stories.

It was a delusion, though. Toby would never remember, and her friends--Ludo, and Hoggle and Sir Didymus--would never know the truth, the reason. Obligation came with her role as an older sister, and well, as being the person who'd gotten Toby in this whole mess to begin with, so she really had to save him, leave her soul in the bottomless eyes of the goblin king and vow that he, his words, his angelic songs, had no power over her. It was a lie; such a blatant, cold lie, but one she felt would be forgiven, later. Because, you see, Sarah had every intention of seizing her dreams, of sealing her heart and handing it to the brilliant king, the epitome of her Prince Charming, and she wondered, when it was later (months, years, minutes, did it really matter? Time passed, and left her alone still, and that was all that _really_ mattered), if she had the strength to wish again, if he would grant the wish her broken, bleeding heart wanted. But, in the end, she truly believed--or hoped--that Jareth (the cut across her chest ripples as his name sounds through her mind, but the word is so very superb that she thinks the incandescent pain is worth it) would come for her still.

And as she lays across a flat, stone tomb (for she has taken to haunting graveyards, because she is dead and they are dead, and they do not want her to disturb their slumber, and she does not feel the need for life to surround her), smoking the cigarettes she'd stolen from her father's coat pocket, she thinks she can feel him, watching her, waiting, needing her. Because here, with the clear, cold night black around her, and white-hot stars blazing eternally above her, and the knowledge of the barren below her, it is so very easy to pretend that he loves her, that he is simply waiting, biding his time for the perfect earth-shattering moment to come and whisk her away to his kingdom, and they can watch the fiery yellow sun rise every morning together, and she will weary pretty dresses and they will have masques every evening, and he will love her and protect her, and she will be his slave.

But the night eases into the dawn, and the day is hot, and that kills her, because she remembers that Jareth's arms, his embrace, is just as searing as the raging planet, and that as the Earth is doomed to revolve, to live and die, around the Sun, so is she doomed to place her entire existence on the king of a land she should have never visited.

Sarah had learned only three things in her life: wishes came true, whether they be of evil or good intent, self-sacrifice was the creation of loneliness, and her heart would belong only, and forever, to Jareth, the Goblin King.

_To sleep, perchance to dream, _she remembers, and the dagger glints in the morning light. The handle is ornate, very lovely, golden and silver with rubies and emeralds and opals laid generously into it. Surprisingly, her blood is cold, and the agony is not as severe as it should be. The edges of her vision begin to blur, and with a satisfied smile that she is sure looks quite mad and sadistic, she know the end is near. She waits, quietly, and when the Angel of Death does appear, his hair is long and his eyes are bottomless and his arms are stretched for her, and he smells just like she remembers, like juniper and cedar and oranges, and his lips, full and appetizing and parted in a welcoming smile, touch her own, and Sarah is free, and her wish has come true.

**Any and all feedback is love. **


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